


The Most Perfect Doll

by gala_apples



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dolls, Dominance, Dress Up, F/F, Objectification, Open Relationships, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:26:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22320265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: Learning information like this is the exact reason Lydia mans the Post Secret BHHS fundraiser.
Relationships: Allison Argent/Lydia Martin, Lydia Martin/Jackson Whittemore
Kudos: 27





	The Most Perfect Doll

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the dolls/robots prompt on seasonofkink.

Lydia isn’t the type of girl to participate in a hundred school clubs. It’s just not her technique for ruling, though she respects the other queens of their own destinies. Her control is focused in other ways; gathering the right friends, appropriately covering her math genius. There is one exception to the rule though. The Post Secret fundraiser for the tech lab. The first year she got dragged in, it was due to Danny. He’d needed extra hands prepping the online submissions for physical posting: sizing and printing, cutting them into rectangles, taping them to the white cinderblock walls. Reading them before anyone else at Beacon Hills was a powertrip of the kind Lydia deeply appreciates. There’s something about having knowledge others don’t that is intoxicating. How could she do anything but take a larger role the next year?

“I was told you’re one of the bosses of the fundraiser lining the halls today?”

Lydia glances at Allison. It’s frequently thrilling to be friends with the New Girl. There are so many things she doesn’t know. Every piece of wisdom or history Lydia has to gift her is another fingerprint she’s left on her.

“Danny tell you that? It’s a cooperative venture. The tech lab needs money just like the lacrosse team or the choir, but a 3-D printer is harder to argue for than school bus rental or new microphones. I merely seek to make sure every interesting boy and girl get the tools they need to take over their corner of the world.”

Society should be a meritocracy. Different people have different skills -Lydia also subscribes to the Howard Gardner theory of Multiple Intelligences- but for every skill there’s someone at the top of that field. Lydia just believes that those tops, whether it be makeup stylist, quarterback, or theoretical mathematician, should rule the world.

“Yeah, okay. Put your success boner away, Lyds, and tell me why there are postcards taped over all the walls with weird random things on them.”

“It costs a dollar to submit an online .png of an anonymous Post Secret, and a dollar fifty to pick up the official four by six cardstock for a physical submission. All physical submissions will be displayed, online submissions have a PhotoBucket gallery, and select secrets will be printed and displayed. The quarters add up surprisingly quickly.”

“People _pay_ for the chance to put their secrets on display?” Allison asks dubiously.

Lydia sighs and pats Allison’s shoulder showily. “Unburdening yourself anonymously means no repercussions. People like the idea of confessing without paying for their actions. And then you have the people paying to get their private joke with a friend posted, or obvious prank posts. There are an inordinate number of posts that just say hi in capslock. I have a system for which posts get the best sections of wallspace, but we don’t turn posts down unless they’re racist, sexist or homophobic. It’s easily the second highest money raising scheme all year.”

“Danny must be kissing your feet,” Allison jokes. Lydia carefully doesn’t say that Danny would never, because she would never let someone kneel for her who wasn’t sexually attracted to her.

Come three thirty Lydia is combing through the three pages of online submissions that have been added through the day. The ones interesting enough to print and post get opened in separate tabs. So far there’s only one: **i love my brother and my brother loves me. Loves-loves.** in a chunky font over a background of pastel pink hearts on lavender. Most people will probably think it’s a joke post, but Lydia has inside knowledge that Parker Davis and Kent Davis-Smith have been sharing a lot of milkshakes at Dairy Queen. She has to wonder how Kent will react when he sees their secret being semi-revealed. She wonders too, how Parker felt designing it and uploading it. The Post Secret fundraiser has the thrill of a soap opera without all the stupid overwrought acting.

It’s the second post from the left on the first row of page three that has Lydia’s heart skipping a beat. **When my friend bought me a dress I got so turned on. No one knows I sometimes want to be someone’s doll.** Another easy candidate for a joke post in some eyes. Once again Lydia Martin knows better. The green chosen for the secret’s background is the exact shade of dress Lydia convinced Allison she’d look forest nymph fab in.

Lydia gives it the evening, but swoops in towards Allison digging through her locker the moment she gets her combination lock open the next morning. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out?” she asks, arm clutching her textbook and the thin spiral notebook that everyone seems to agree means she doesn’t care enough about education to take real notes, rather than the abundance of general knowledge meaning she already comprehensively understands topics high school is supposed to be teaching her. It’d be an insult, if it wasn’t the exact image Lydia’s cultivating.

“Good morning,” Allison says, congenially pointed in regards to Lydia’s lack of greeting, before asking, “what?”

“Allison. If I’m not mistaken you posted your first Post Secret?”

“You are mistaken!” Allison’s defiance deflates as she goes on. “It was my third. I posted a dumb one about doughnuts for breakfast, and one about my mom hating lawn chairs.” Lydia knows that one. She knows all the submissions. She’d blown it off as stupid, not worth highlighting. The post takes on new significance when it’s about the Argent family. Lydia will circle back to that, always needing more information about those she calls friends, but right now she’s on a mission.

“Why did you post that when you know I read all of them?”

“Well, I know you’re straight so I kind of thought your ego wouldn’t pick up on it. And you’re the one who said it’s freeing to unburden yourself. I wanted to see if you were right.”

“I’m always right. If I ever deliver the wrong answer it’s because I chose to, not because I don’t know the correct one. I’m also not straight, I’m pan. And before you wonder, in an open relationship with Jackson. We get bored easily.” More like Jackson cycles in and out of being okay with being submissive, and avoids her when he can’t handle himself, but Lydia won’t tell Allison Jackson’s business. 

“And look, you didn’t even have to pay a dollar to tell me all that. That’s good. Unless wait, is that bad? Are you like a scab strike breaker, going against your own fundraiser?” Allison babbles when she’s nervous, apparently.

It’s time for Lydia to make an executive decision here. “Allison, shhh.”

A well groomed eyebrow raises. “Excuse me?”

Lydia stands her ground. She places an aquamarine polished finger on Allison’s lips. “Dolls don’t talk. If you don’t want this, talk to me about homework, or the dressage lessons you took when you were ten. At any point in this if you want out, speak. Because dolls don’t talk.”

Lydia did her best not to obsess over hypothetical scenes last night, not wanting to set herself up for disappointment if Allison was all talk no action. Still, she’s a genius with a sex drive as vast as her IQ. The moment Allison’s silence echoes through the halls, Lydia’s brain is churning with ideas. 

“I’m going home now,” Lydia announces to no one. She takes two steps before realises Allison isn’t following her. “Come on,” she reminds her. “Possessions go with their owners. Objects don’t think.”

The drive home is short and silent, Allison proving with every second that she’s into this. There’s no reason to call out a greeting as she opens the front door, it’ll only echo. No one’s home. No one’s ever home. Poor little rich girl, whatever. Lydia doesn’t have time for pathetic tropes, not when Allison moves under her hand directly to her bedroom. 

Lydia guides Allison to the bed. Under every day circumstances Lydia wouldn’t be able to manhandle Allison like this. The girl is strong, an unstoppable force to her own immovable object. But today Allison is the object, and today she wants to be moved. With her toy settled, Lydia can turn to her ample closet. After all, it’s one of the best things about dolls, dressing them up in the prettiest clothing. Lydia has very fond memories of getting cutting board sized boxes of ten Barbie fashions and spending whole afternoons mix and matching them with the bin full she already owned.

Unlike Barbie, standardised throughout the nineties and oughts, they’re not entirely the same size. Lydia is shorter than Allison. She definitely has bigger boobs. But they’re close enough for borrowing, as long as the article isn’t particularly fitted. That leaves Lydia a lot of space to dress Allison as she likes. Lydia rifles through her closet, looking for something to fulfill her vision. The squeal of hangers on metal stop at a pink dress with ruching. It’s not fitted, but it’ll be tight, and looking at it and imagining her fingertips grazing the purposeful wrinkling across Allison’s stomach makes Lydia want to lick her lips. It’s perfect.

Lydia gets on the bed and pulls Allison into her lap so they’re chest to back. As Lydia begins to strip her of her lace cardigan and tank top she gets more proof of Allison sinking into a headspace. Maybe not subspace, not as Lydia traditionally knows it, not like how Jackson and the various one night stands have experienced it, but Allison’s not entirely Allison right now. She’s not actively resisting getting naked -that’d be its own problem- but she’s not moving her own limbs either. Lydia’s already stated that dolls don’t talk, or think, and that they follow their owners, but Allison’s apparently figured out for herself that dolls don’t move on their own.

Once Allison’s bra is discarded, Lydia stands up her doll so her jeans and panties can come off. And then there she is; skin smooth and clear, shaven and peach toned. This is the base model of what Lydia has to play with. She fully intends on getting her afternoon’s worth.

The dress goes on with ease. Lydia curls her hands around Allison’s ankle and directs it into the gathered fabric, then does the same to her right. The material glides up Allison’s hips like a caress, and once Lydia zips up the back it encases her from cleavage to upper thigh. The pink makes Allison’s blush even more apparent.

“Oh, is it the panties?” Lydia asks. “When was the last time a Barbie came with underwear instead of a plastic accessory?”

The funny thing is she actually knows that. It’s another stupid fact Stiles has spewed at her in one of his incomprehensible rants. In 1997 Mattel made it so that Barbie had an underwear pattern molded on, after controversy. She doesn’t know why so many of the loser’s words stick in her mind, even when she doesn’t want them to. But sharing that knowledge doesn’t suit the situation, and unlike Stiles Lydia is a master of social awareness. She doesn’t take Allison away from her headspace by saying a weird factoid, just grazes her finger along the line where hem and inner thigh meet.

“Not that I’m playing Barbies right now. If I was, you’d know. It’d be all high heels and tit torture. Maybe next time.” She doesn’t know enough about Allison’s likes to try painplay without asking, and mid-scene is not the time to start a conversation, especially after implying that any word spoken is a safeword. They don’t need to have a conversation, Lydia just has to keep the scene specific. It’s a technique she’s used before. No one will ever be as laid bare to her as Jackson, but he’s not always the person in her bed. There are quickly filled out checklists, there’s vanilla sex while talking out a fantasy, and there’s mentioning one kink and staying in that lane tightly enough to be able to assume allowable actions. If this becomes a loose _thing_ they can discuss details later, but Lydia’s not asking now.

Lydia poses Allison on the bed with her legs out in front of her, a doll bent in half. She considers the portrait a second then bends Allison’s legs at the knee. The dress reacts beautifully to the change in position: it rides up Allison’s thighs, so tight it can’t possibly drape. Lydia almost wonders how she feels, hairless cunt exposed, but stops herself before she asks. Allison doesn’t want to feel right now, it wouldn’t be fair of her as a domme to make her feel human. Lydia’s a better domme than to make it all about her wishes.

“Any doll of mine won’t move until she’s moved by my hands,” Lydia reminds her instead. It’ll be good for Allison. Stillness bondage is good for intense people. Jackson can orgasm without moving an inch. 

Lydia climbs onto the bottom edge of the bed, toes touching the footboard. Mother has a practically annual need to redecorate the house, and next time it comes up, Lydia fully intends to get a bedroom set with a better sex set up. She goes back and forth between what’s better, wrought iron and multiple solid rods to attach ropes to, or a lushly padded headboard to peg Jackson against, but for now it’s slick chestnut wood and red and aqua linens. The comforter is soft against her calves, and against her elbow when Lydia lowers her body even further. What girl in the world hasn’t laid on their belly to kick their feet up in the air and play dolls?

This doll is anatomically correct, Lydia finds her g-spot after only a few moments of questing fingers. Allison manages to not cry out or move her body, but her micro expressions can’t be tamed. Her nostrils flare and her eyes widen. Best of all, there’s a small gush of fluid on her hand as Allison gets wetter.

“Oh, I like this. Some dolls advertise blinking, or real eating and wet nappies, but not you. You make a different fluid. Did mommy see that when she bought you for me?” They’re in the bedroom of a spoiled rich girl’s mcmansion, might as well throw in the angle. If nothing else, it’ll let Lydia drop the word _mommy_ and see how it lands. Some guys are really into it.

There’s no change in Allison’s reactions, so Lydia ticks it with a metal _meh_ and moves on. She needs her left elbow so she doesn’t go face down on the bed, but it’s possible to crook her arm so her knuckles can rub over Allison’s clit. With clitoral stimulation and the rapid fingering, Lydia quickly gets Allison to the point of climax. It’s like pulling the string on the back of a talking dolly, at least before technology improved. The cord slowly withdraws, getting shorter and shorter, until it’s snapped all the way back into the doll’s back and it erupts in speech. Allison doesn’t get to the level of words, but a few breathy whimpers punch out of her inanimate body. Lydia really hopes she’s wet enough to drip onto the back of the dress. Allison will change before she leaves, tossing the dress into the hamper as she goes, no doubt. Lydia can’t envision her being the kind of sub to linger in subspace, or want in depth aftercare. She’ll want to go, and put on her strong and untouched facade as she does. Being in the hamper is still a step away from washed and clean though. Lydia would love to keep that souvenir until night, when she takes it to bed to sniff as she’s jerking off. Making time to summarise the day before bed is a habit of highly successful people. 

Rising to her knees, Lydia takes in the doll beneath her. She’s satisfied, and still in the role, still entirely frozen as per Lydia’s scene setting. If Allison was melting into a puddle of spent lust, or hazy with subspace, or crying, Lydia would be attentive, providing whatever her sub needed. But the truth of the matter is Lydia’s never understood service or financial or pain submission, or providing only that. Her domination is always sexual, and if she doesn’t absolutely _need_ to end the scene before mutual orgasms, she’s not going to.

Lydia takes a moment to drag the photobox out from under the bed. It holds some of Lydia’s most prized possessions, hidden away by a teal bedskirt. Scant protection, but most of the time an illusion of something is just as useful as the actual thing. She plucks out the Lelo vibe and turns it to her favourite setting before curling Allison’s fingers around it and guiding her hand to the right spot. Lydia moans as the GiGi slides into her cunt and -there’s no other word for it- attacks her g-spot. Allison still doesn’t move, even making another girl fall apart. She’s got perfect self control, a characteristic that Lydia finds supremely hot. Lydia maneuvers Allison’s left hand to cradle her labia, pushing them exactly so Lydia can best feel the hard stretch of the vibrator. She rides Allison’s hands, using them like just another object. She might as well be the suction cup of a dildo clinging to a flat surface, for all that Lydia pays her personal attention. 

Lydia comes screaming. In porn it’s always the weaker partner who screams, but Lydia doesn’t let porno misconceptions stop her from enjoying herself, whether she’s with Jackson or a stranger. There’s just something about a scream in her throat that makes her feel powerful. She gushes over the silicone, over the fingers clenching down on the handle, over the hand cupping her lips. As the rush of euphoria begins to ebb, Lydia moves Allison’s wet fingers to her mouth, making her doll taste her.

It’s funny, just how right her assumption was. Allison only allows come drenched fingers in her mouth for a second before grabbing Lydia’s wrist and pulling her away. “Okay, alright. I’m back now.”

It’s sudden, it’s abrupt, it’s exactly how Lydia thought a post-scene would go with her. Still, even if the aftercare isn’t there, a debrief of sorts is needed. “Yeah? Was it all the Post Secret posting hoped it would be?”

A grin bursts over Allison’s face for a moment before she calms it towards composed. “It was good.”

“Well, I know you’re crushing on loser Stiles’ weird friend, McCall. That’s fine. I mean it’s not, because a brief stint as decent lacrosse player does not make him worthy of you, trust me, I’ve seen Stiles talk him into eating crayons. But getting whatever action you want to is fine. But if you ever want to do something like this again, I’m available, whether or not we’ve got significant others.”

“And if there’s something specific I want to do?”

“Text me about it, and I’ll decide if we’re doing it or not, and when.” The pink dress Lydia can’t wait to smell later worked in a pinch, and it still looks good on Allison, but Lydia would rather have the time to set up particulars. 

Allison shakes her head, full of humor. “You’re such a control freak.”

“Well, _yeah_.” How else can you get exactly what you want, if not controlling the universe around you? Lydia might be young, but she knows -has known for ages now- that only successful people, people who are the masters of their fortune, get the happily ever afters.


End file.
